Okay, now I need heteroerotic friendship Dick where they become fwb but still think its a completely normal thing that friends do 😭
♡. ⤷ your best friend, dick grayson, is capable of doing anything to help you relax. +18, mdni, light smut, some fingering. soft dom!dick. sub!reader.
──── dick was a true overachiever, always striving to be the best at everything he did. the best mentor, the best vigilant, the most caring older brother. but most of all, he tried to be the best best friend you could ever have, because you deserved nothing less. every time he looked into your pretty eyes, he knew he'd go above and beyond just to see you happy and at ease. so he memorized your mom's birthday, your go-to coffee order, your favorite drink at the bar, your comfort tv show, your favorite song—even the subtle twitch of your eyebrows or the shift in your posture didn't go unnoticed around him.
but like i said, he's an overachiever. so of course, he knew all about your cycle too. and poor girl, you really suffered. cramps, mood swings, endless cravings. and the normal emotional rollercoaster that usually hits harder during your ovulation. dick noticed the moment you walked into the common room. flushed and fidgety, hoodie sleeves shoved up to your elbows, hair twisted into a half-assed bun you kept readjusting.
"day fifteen," he said without looking up from his tablet, voice annoyingly casual. "you always get like this when you’re ovulating."
you whipped your head toward him, scandalized. "you're tracking my cycle?"
he raised a brow. "you made me. remember? you said if i was gonna be this involved in your life, i might as well know when to keep you fed and comfortable."
"you weren't supposed to memorize it, fucking freak. and that was a joke!"
he shrugged. "too late. you're at peak fertility and about two days away from threatening murder if no one kisses you."
you threw a pillow at him. dick caught it one-handed, smug as ever. he started a countdown behind your back. you lasted another six hours before totally cracking.
the mission briefing had been a disaster. the water heater was broken. your vibrator had died mid-charge. your hormones were holding you body hostage, and every time dick looked at you with those ridiculous expressive blue eyes, you had to cross your legs. and the fucker knew all about it, of course, he's a detective. so when you stomped into his room well past midnight, hoodie zipped up to your throat and teeth clenched, he didn't even flinch.
"couldn't sleep?" he asked, gently.
you looked at him like he was your last lifeline. "i need help."
he sat up slowly. "with…?"
you crossed the room, knelt beside his bed like you were at confession. "i'm going crazy, dick. i can't focus, i can't sleep, i feel like i'm gonna crawl out of my skin. i need... fuck—i just need something. anything."
dick blinked. and then, with infuriating calm, he said, "want me to help?"
you stared at him. "what the fuck does that mean?"
he tilted his head, voice low. "it means i love you enough to stuff my fingers in you if it'll calm you down, dove. no weirdness. i'm your best friend."
your breath hitched. "that's not—people don't..."
"we're not people," he said simply. "we're us."
you didn't remember climbing into his lap. one minute you were on the floor, cheeks flushed and thighs clenched tight and the next, dick was sitting on the edge of his bed, you straddling him, and the air between you two thick.
"you're shaking," dick murmured, big hands on your hips like he'd done a thousand times before. only now his thumbs pressed deeper, grounding you softly.
you exhaled shakily. "i just need—just need something."
"i've got you," he whispered, and kissed your forehead.
then his hand slid down the curve of your thigh, fingertips trailing under the hem of your sleep shorts. when you didn't stop him, when you arched into it, he exhaled softly. his fingers found your heat, pressed against you through the damp cotton.
"jesus, baby," he whispered, tone low and awestruck. "you're that wet?"
"dick, it's not funny—"
"i'm not laughing."
he leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, lips just inches away. dick pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to your lips. a tiny peck that made you melt in his strong arms. then you felt his fingers slip under the hem of your oversized hoodie, teasing as they dragged it up slowly, but with a heat that said he couldn't wait much longer.
"you want me to take care of it?"
you nodded once, too silent for his own taste.
"come on, dove, say it."
you chuckled.
"fuck you, dickhead." you tried to lighten the mood, the way you always did when sparring with him, but the tension was so thick it felt like it might swallow you whole. there was no hint of playfulness in his blue eyes. just that same intense look he wore on critical missions, only now, it seemed tinged with desperation.
"tell your best friend what you want."
his thumbs brushed softly against your exposed nipples. fuck, you swallowed a pathetic moan.
you trembled and almost stuttered. "i want you to touch me. with your fingers. p-please?"
he smiled against your shoulder. "good girl."
you let him strip you from the waist down, spreading your thighs across his lap like you were made for it, your bare ass dragging along the soft flannel of his pajama pants. your pussy was slick, swollen, needy, and he looked at it like it was the most important thing he'd ever seen. he licked his lips while spreading your cunt with his skilled fingers.
"so pretty, all for me. my pretty best friend."
then two, thick, fingers slid inside you with practiced ease, the stretch just right. you moaned into his neck, clinging to his shirt like you were falling off a cliff. his thumb rubbed gentle circles over your clit, slow and reverent, never rushing you.
"that's it, dove," he whispered. "you feel how soft you are inside? like you're made for me."
"fuck, dick—" you felt his lips near your ear, planting soft, fluttering kisses in your neck and red cheeks like he was trying to soothe you.
"you're so tight. you're squeezing me like your pussy knows me."
he curved his fingers just slightly and hit something deep. your whole body jolted, a sharp gasp escaping you as your eyes flew wide, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of sensation.
"right there," he said, like he was cataloging it. "that's the spot. i'll remember that."
"please don't stop,” you begged, trying to ride his fingers. more. more. you couldn't help the way your hips jerked, and he chuckled while you cried out. "don't stop, d-don't stop..."
"you don't ever have to beg with me," he murmured, pressing his lips to your sweaty temple. "i'd do this every night if it meant you'd sleep better. you know that, right?"
you let out a broken moan. tears filling your eyes.
"i'd finger you in the locker room, in your apartment, after missions, when your body's all sore and tired. i'd lay you out and just use my hands. just to see you breathe easy again."
your orgasm hit hard, almost like a wave crashing over a cliff. your nails dug into his shoulders. your thighs snapped shut around his wrist and you choked on his name. he holds your waist, helping you ride your peak while showering you with quiet praise.
"ah, there you go. that's my girl, so fucking good" he coos softly against your skin, giving your cheek a last kiss. when you finally opened your eyes, boneless and glassy, dick was watching you.
"that was just… help, right?"
dick smiled softly. "friendly. of course."
"but if you ever want more than fingers, dove," he murmured, brushing your hair back with the hand that wasn't completely covered in your slick and cum, "you know i'd give you everything."
i can’t stop picturing clark all whiny because he’s close to coming, like, his hips slamming desperately against yours, his face buried in your neck, panting against your skin, chanting how tight and wet you are and how you got him so close to reaching his high, at one point he’s just saying nonsense, not even him knows what words are coming out of his mouth, he’s so close your pussy is turning him dumb
summary: clark isn't satisfied with your introverted behavior in the office.
pairing: clark kent x reader
warnings: dark fic, dub-con, drink-tampering (basically a slow-building aphrodisiac), ooc (dark)!clark, unprotected sex, rough sex, hints of obsession, squirting, tummy bulge, he's your manager and delusional, power-dynamics, alcohol, afab!reader, reader's face flushes from consuming alcohol, slight age-gap, condescending/misogynistic/age-ist language, slight size-difference, not beta-read
wc: 4.4k
note: i haven't written something dark or CLARK in a while. so here is this fic that's been marinating in my drafts for a while <3
bigger note: please don't read if you can't handle dark content or ooc!clark. i am not responsible for the content you consume!
masterlist
---
You knew his sweet, soft personality was an act.
How could a guy who looks like that not know how hot he is?
It felt like a prize when you found out about his secret -- that Clark Kent, the soft-shelled dork from the other side of the office, was actually a huge asshole.
Since the moment you joined the company, you never went out of your way to interact with him. You were cordial and professional when you had to be, but this job was just an obstacle between you and your freedom of going home.
You could tell it irked him when you swiftly moved on from your greeting with him to meet some of the other staff. His jaw clenched beneath his forced smile, hand tensing as you pulled away from the brief handshake.
After that first day, he made an effort to make his presence known.
You didn't make it easy, though.
His friendly morning greetings -- which always included your name so you knew exactly who he was talking to -- were met with half-assed 'good morning everyone's, your eyes never leaving your PC monitor. His generous coffee runs seemed to conveniently clash with the days you decided to bring in your own tumblers of caffeine (Jimmy was grateful, though, since he got your coffee as a result). And all the times he would invite the team out for dinner, you'd always be too busy or tired to make it.
To you, this was just your typical introverted behavior.
You're used to an extroverted team manager trying to pull you out of your shell, but you've always made your intentions clear -- you're only at the company to work, not make friends. Like those past managers, you hoped Clark would eventually give up and move on from you.
It turns out that he was more committed to you than you originally thought.
---
A small tap on your desk pulls you away from your work. You already know who it is based on the subtle scent of his cologne. You look up, eyes meeting a very smiley Clark who clearly believes that what he has to say is more important than the task you were doing.
"Sorry to bother you." No, you're not. "I was just wondering if you had plans this weekend. The team is going to O'Malley's to celebrate Mike's promotion." Right, one of the interns is being brought on as a full-time employee. You knew Mike, sort of. Not enough to hold any conversation above the usual small talk.
Immediately, you search your brain for an excuse.
"Ah, I can't, I..." your eyes flick away from him as you quickly think up something convincing, "I'm going out of town to see my mom."
"Oh, that's alright." Clark nods understandingly, or at least tries to convince you that it doesn't bother him.
But then his demeanor shifts a bit as his cool blue eyes scan over the office surrounding the two of you.
Is he making sure that no one is paying attention to this conversation?
He slips his hands into his pockets, his voice lowering. "You always seem to be out of town these days." His tone is bordering on accusatory. His gaze lazily returns to you, waiting for a response. The only thing keeping his innocent persona intact is the wide-frame glasses that shield his intense stare.
You try to hide your uncomfortable shock with a small shrug, "yeah, I guess so."
"Maybe next time."
"Maybe."
---
After successfully dodging his invitation, you decide that you deserve to spend a lazy weekend at home -- which is exactly how you usually spend your weekends anyway. A warm, comfy sofa, a bottle of wine, and a show playing in the background while you scroll through your phone. Perfect Saturday plans.
Unfortunately, after repeating this routine for many Saturdays in a row, you're out of your usual wine and snacks. With how exhausted work leaves you at the end of the week, you decide to leave the warmth of your apartment after a quick rest.
You walk to a nearby corner store, one you're a regular at. Roaming the familiar aisles, you pick up an item here and there, building your late-night munchie list as you go. As you're choosing your wine for the night, you feel a presence at your side.
"Thought you were out of town." You turn to see a casually dressed Clark holding a six-pack of beers by his side. He looks even bigger in his plain T-shirt and jeans, the cotton fabric stretching over the broadness of his shoulders.
You're suddenly conscious of the oversized hoodie and sweatpants you're wearing. None of your coworkers have seen what you normally wear outside of work, and that's on purpose. Being on the younger side, you want to be taken seriously at work, so you always wear professional clothing.
"Um, my mom cancelled on me." You place a random bottle of red in your basket, purposefully covering up the small pack of Minecraft gummies you (stupidly) decided to try.
Luckily, Clark doesn't seem too interested in your basket as his gaze stays steadily on your face. It seems the gentle persona he usually wears at the office fades away when he's no longer in work mode.
"Yeah?" He doesn't seem convinced, but lets it go.
"Yup." Your hands squeeze the handles of the shopping basket. "So what brings you to this side of town..."
"Same as you, I assume," he gestures to the wine you haphazardly picked out, "merlot fan?"
"Uh, yeah," you glance at the bottle, "it's, uh, a good one."
"If you like merlot, you should've picked out this one," he smoothly walks a few steps away and pulls out a more expensive bottle. He holds it out, and you feel like you have no other choice but to take it from him. "Let me know how it tastes."
"Sure." Your attempt to take the bottle is stopped when he refuses to let go.
"Better yet, why don't we try it together?" His dimpled smile is charming, but not enough to quell your suspicions.
"Together? Like tonight?"
"No time like the present." You pull at the bottle with a bit more force, and he finally lets go.
"Maybe another time." You carefully place the pricey wine next to your cheaper choice. Your basket is now two times heavier.
"You sure?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" A hint of defensiveness rings through your tone.
"You know, Perry has been worried about you." He clicks his tongue. "Since you haven't been to any of the team outings, he thinks you aren't getting along with the others."
This is news to you.
You've tried hard to stay under the radar -- friendly enough at the office that you wouldn't be suspected of staying home during company get-togethers.
"Really? But there haven't been any issues..."
"I heard he might move you to a different department if something doesn't change soon."
"Why would he--"
"You're a hard worker, but part of being in a department is teamwork," he explains, speaking to you as if he's some kind of mentor. The vague condescension grates on you.
"Fine." You relent. "I'll try the wine with you."
---
Despite your refusals, he ended up paying for the high-end wine, claiming it's his treat since he was the one who picked it out in the first place. You awkwardly paid for the rest of your items, watching as the clerk took his time putting everything into a plastic bag.
Clark's apartment is closer to the store than you realized. You're surprised that you haven't run into him sooner. The elevator takes you up to the top floor, where Clark leads you to the apartment at the end of the hall. You start to wonder just how much he gets paid for his monthly interviews with Superman.
"Make yourself at home." He puts his beers in the fridge and goes to a cabinet to grab some wine glasses.
"Um, okay." You nervously sit at the edge of his sofa, placing your plastic bag full of junk food on the carpet next to you.
"Here." You're handed a glass of the merlot before he takes a seat next to you. "Try it." He watches you take a tentative sip and only takes his own once you've swallowed.
The wine coats your tongue with a savory richness that speaks for its high price.
Okay fine, you'll admit that this one is pretty good.
"So?" Clark asks with a smug smile. Instead of responding, you take another, larger sip. "See? I told you."
"It's alright." You shrug, setting the now half-empty glass on the coffee table in front of you. "So about what Perry said--"
"What, you want to talk about work?"
"I mean, that's the reason why we're here, isn't it?"
Clark nods noncommittally before placing his glass next to yours, "Am I not cool enough to just hang out with?"
"Hang-out? No…This has nothing to do with how cool you are, Kent."
"Do you think I haven't noticed how you've tried to avoid me?" Clark smiles as his deep blue eyes bore into yours. That friendly expression that he often wears at the office is so clearly a farce in this setting.
"I haven't been avoiding you." You mumble as you start to redirect your gaze so you don't feel so pressured under his stare. He sighs and places his hand gently underneath your chin to make you look up at him. The warmth from his fingers spreads against your jaw and you're starting to think that the wine is heading straight for your brain.
"See?" His tone is that of an owner softly disciplining their favorite pet, "You can't even look at me for more than a few minutes."
You pull your face away from his hand.
"Eye contact just makes me uncomfortable..." You pick up your glass again, if only to give your hands -- and your eyes -- something to do. The distance doesn't seem to bother him, but you can see a crack within his blase attitude as he hesitates to settle back to his original spot on the couch.
"You'll have to get over that if you want to be head reporter at the Planet."
Great, you've summoned the manager within him.
You take a sip while Clark starts rattling off reporter tips. Somewhere between his advice on interviews and making sources feel comfortable, it hits you that he still doesn't know. After all this time -- after every conversation, every attempt he's made to get to know you -- he still thinks you want to be a reporter. One of those prying nerds who salivates at the chance to hear Superman's voice with their own ears. The kind of reporter always chasing the next juicy piece of gossip to slap on the front page.
You don't though. You want to be an editor.
Less interviewing. Less charm. Less him.
You've always hoped that one day you'd be holed up in an office of your own with the only interaction between you and Clark being a few emails now and then.
The wine sends a pleasant tingle through your body, warmth spreading from your core, gliding over your limbs, and finally sparking at your fingertips. His voice drifts into the background, and at some point you realize you've stopped sitting so stiffly, your body relaxing into the couch beside him.
The more you drink, the less attention you give to the conversation. You've found that you enjoy looking at his face more than listening to his attempts to assert his superiority for being a front-page journalist.
You feel the warmth of his thigh press against yours. With every refill, he's gotten closer to your side, but it wasn't noticeable until now.
After finishing the last drop in your glass, you look over at him and find that he's already looking at you.
His blue eyes are glazed as he studies your face.
When did he stop talking?
"What?" Your voice is weaker than you want it to be, almost like you didn't mean to say it out loud.
"Your face looks hot," he says it so casually you almost miss it -- but when it registers, your heart skips a beat.
"Um…hot?"
"Do you get the alcohol flush?" His lips curve into a lazy smile.
Oh. Hot -- as in temperature.
You glance back down at your nearly empty glass, oddly disappointed by the clarification.
"Yeah, sometimes."
He lets out an amused huff of laughter. "You thought I was talking about how pretty you are?" The bluntness of it lands like a punch to the gut.
How pretty you are… he thinks you're pretty?
"What? No," you reply quickly, your face suddenly warmer than the wine could ever make it.
"You sure?" His fingers skim your jaw before resting there, warm against your skin. The touch is light enough that you could pull away, but somehow that makes it harder to. When you don't move, his thumb traces the faintest arc beneath your cheek. "I thought you'd be a little more observant with how quickly Perry brought you onto the team…" His voice is soft, but the words sting.
You roll your eyes at the condescending remark.
Whatever little flutter his accidental compliment caused is promptly buried beneath irritation.
It's nothing new. Being a young woman in an office means hearing offhand remarks like that often enough.
Though this is the first time you've had a man say it directly to your face.
His grip tightens. "Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"You never stand up for yourself. You just let people spew bullshit and go on with your day."
So he's noticed how the other guys talk about you in the break room, their voices carrying whenever you happen to walk by. He's known about it this whole time and done nothing.
And now he's lecturing you about standing up for yourself?
What a manager…
You look away, suddenly tired of the conversation.
"I don't know. What's it going to change anyway?"
"Look at me." The softness in his voice catches you off guard. "You never... look at me."
You meet those intense blue eyes, now fully revealed without the glasses. He must have taken them off at some point, and you hadn't even noticed.
Why hadn't you noticed?
He looks familiar, but something about him feels completely different -- the darkness in his eyes, the bite behind his words. None of it feels like the man you're thinking of.
"Why should I?" You challenge him, pulling away from his touch as your hazy mind finally catches up to the position you're in. "It's just a job. You're just a coworker -- You're my supervisor. Can't you and everyone else just let me live peacefully?"
"It seems like more than just a job, sweetheart." His eyes drag slowly over your figure, taking in the sweats you'd thrown on for your late-night shopping trip.The scrutiny makes you feel exposed, even though you're fully covered. He pinches the extra fabric of your hoodie between his fingers. "I mean, look at you. You don't exactly look like someone with a busy social life."
"And you do, Kent?" you retort.
"That's it. Fight back." He grins, his pretty dimples at odds with the cruel twist of his smile.
The sudden pause pulls you out of the stifling tension between you. Your eyes land on the empty wine bottle sitting on the coffee table, and you realize there's nothing keeping you here anymore.
You straighten in your seat, "I think I should get going."
Clark doesn't move.
"Got someone waiting for you at home?" he asks as though he already knows the answer.
"It's late."
"It is."
"I think we've drunk too much tonight."
"I'm not drunk."
He's right. He looks perfectly sober, if a little worked up from the argument.
Meanwhile, the wine has left your head hazy, making it harder to think clearly.
You try to push yourself up, but your body feels strangely heavy. Something has settled deep into your limbs, turning even the simple act of standing into an effort.
"I heard that you're a lightweight, but this is a bit much, isn't it?"
"I'm fine."
"You can barely stand."
You glare at him, but the effort of pushing yourself upright only makes your head swim harder. Your knees wobble, and you instinctively reach for the back of the couch. Clark catches your arm before you can stumble, pulling you against his body as his hands settle around your waist to steady you.
"See?"
Something is wrong.
"What…?" Your body isn't listening to you. Your limbs feel disconnected, like they belong to someone else. The room seems strangely distant, and for a moment you feel like you're watching yourself from somewhere outside your own body. "Kent."
"It's Clark." A hand spreads over the back of your thigh, gently massaging your body through your clothes as he pulls you closer. Even through your clothes, you can feel the warmth of his body. Desire pulses through you in uneven waves, each one fading only long enough to warn you to pull away.
The scent of his cologne settles around you, masculine and distracting. You feel weak against him.
"What did you do?" You ask softly.
Your hand lands on his chest, but you can't muster enough energy to push him away. The muscles beneath his shirt tighten under your touch, and he leans closer, as if inviting you to feel more of him.
"Looks like it's finally kicking in…"
—
Kissing him isn't supposed to feel good.
It isn't supposed to make you melt against his body as he presses you down against the couch. It isn't supposed to make you tilt your head and chase his lips when he pulls away for air. And you definitely aren't supposed to pull him closer, guiding his hands underneath your hoodie as if you want him there.
But the heat coursing through you smothers every logical thought before it can take hold.
His large hands cup over your tits, squeezing them greedily as he captures your lips once more. You try desperately to hold back your moans, but your breath stutters when his thumbs flick over your sensitive nipples.
You can feel his erection throbbing through his jeans. It presses against your stomach as he deepens the kiss.
Clark pulls away, staring down at your flushed cheeks and glistening eyes with a satisfied look on his face. With every heated kiss, eager grope, and dulled moan, the fire within has burned hotter. Now, your body is begging for a release.
"I thought you hated me." He brushes a few strands of hair away from your face. This would almost be romantic if Clark wasn't such a delusional freak.
"I do." Your voice comes out weak and breathy.
"You keep saying that," he says quietly, "but you're still kissing back."
"Because I'm hot, Clark."
"I know you are," he says smugly, "let me help you cool down." His hands slide to the hem of your hoodie, pushing it up just enough to expose your torso before one slips beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. "Didn't realize you get so wet for someone you hate." He teases, feeling the mess you've made of yourself.
"Fuck you." You breathe out as his fingers slide through your folds.
The words seem to piss him off because he isn't gentle when he pushes two fingers inside of you. Luckily, whatever pill he slipped into your drink already has you dripping down your thighs.
The stretch is immediate and has you gripping onto his arm to slow him down, but he ignores your pleading touch and starts pumping his fingers into your hole. The squelching sound has you burying your face against his shoulder, embarrassed of your body.
"Look at how easily you fall apart from me." He taunts. Your mouth gapes open as he reaches the soft spot within you, prodding at it incessantly until your thighs squeeze around his wrist.
An unfamiliar ache builds between your legs, something intense.
"Wait, s-something…" The angle of his fingers thrusting into you becomes too much.
"Are you gonna cum around my fingers, baby?" His blue eyes drink you in and his hand speeds up, wanting to push your limits.
A broken moan is forced out of your throat as your climax hits. Ecstasy ripples over your body and your eyes roll back from the intensity. You feel your stomach tighten before you realize what's happening and you can feel yourself drench your panties.
Pretty stars dot your vision as you come back to yourself.
Or are those tears?
"You made a mess of your sweatpants, honey." You feel him drag them down, but you don't have the energy to lift your hips to help him. He lets you recover a bit, using the pause to take off his shirt and unbutton his jeans.
You're breathing hard and you wish you could just go to sleep, but an itching arousal within you persists.
He pulls himself out of his boxers, pumping himself lazily as his eyes wander over your half-covered body.
"You're so pretty, you know?" A hand pushes your hoodie up to reveal your chest, "Everything about you is pretty. Your handwriting, your voice, your eyes, your pussy..."
He leans over you, kissing down your chest before sucking a nipple into his mouth. Your body arches against his mouth, your fingers now finding their way into his curls.
He grasps at your other tit before moving down to languidly caress over your stomach and hips. This time he is taking it slow, working you up with his mouth and hands like a lover would do.
But slow is the last thing you need right now.
You pull at his hair, impatient.
"What are you waiting for?" You groan, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull his lower body onto yours.
A sharp pinch at your nipple makes you gasp. Did he just bite you?
"Be patient." He scolds, though he doesn't seem to mind the feeling of your wet cunt against the underside of his cock. He pushes himself between your folds, using your slick to easily move against you. His hips roll slowly as he takes your other nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the bud teasingly.
"Please, I-I need something."
"What do you need, baby?" he asks softly, as though he doesn''t already know the answer. His mouth has moved up to your throat, painting the delicate skin with suckled marks.
You shake your head, refusing to verbalize it.
"I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong." You can feel his lips smile against your heated skin.
"Clark -- Fuck." The blunt head of his cock teases at your entrance, and your desperate cunt flutters for more. "Please, just put it in."
"Like this?" He finally gives in, pushing into you gently so your body can open up for him. Blood rushes to your head as you feel him drag against your tender walls, forcing you to stretch out around him.
"Oh." The size is nothing like you've experienced before. It fills you up so fully that you're unable to escape the overwhelming sensation of his cock finally bottoming out.
"Feel good?" Clark keeps himself pressed inside of you, letting you struggle with the intensity of being filled so completely.
"So big."
"I know, sweetheart. I can see myself right here…" He groans, pressing a hand over your lower stomach, "Too much for you, hm?" Clark pulls out, slowly, watching as each inch of him leaves your body. He doesn't waste time pushing back into you until your thighs start shaking around him.
"Move -- Please, just move."
Clark pulls out for a second to push your knees against your chest, positioning you into a mating press. When he reenters your body, his cock hits your sweet spot even easier with the new angle.
His hips snap against yours, forcing you to take all of him with every thrust. His pace speeds up as your moans start to flow out of you, the couch squeaking with every harsh move.
"It's like you were made for me." Clark pants, pushing through your slickened walls. "Weren't you?"
"I-I…"
Your answer doesn't quite satisfy him.
"Weren't you?" He tries again, burying himself inside of you until the head of his cock nudges the deepest parts of you. It's so intense that you wish you could tap out, but all you can do is take it. You start losing yourself in a heady mix of intoxicating sensations.
"Yes." You rasp out, head tilted back as you reel against the pressure. This time, you seem to say the right thing. Clark starts fucking into you again, lower body smacking against yours as he feeds you his cock.
Your cunt starts sucking him back in when he tries to pull out, frantically clinging onto anything as your body starts to lose itself to pleasure.
His cock stays so deep within you that he's basically grinding against your clit with each thrust. You can't help the whimper that escapes you when he prods against your g-spot, almost feeling him in your stomach.
"Clark!" You can feel the pulsing of his cock within you -- all because you said his name. That's all it takes to have you rushing towards another climax.
"Already?" He can feel you tremble around him as he pushes into you.
"I c-can't–" The walls of your cunt start to tighten around him, throbbing insistently as he continues his vigorous thrusts.
You felt it coming, but you weren't expecting how overwhelming it would be. Heat vibrates through your body as your vision whitens, disorienting all your senses at once. You could barely feel the way your whole body tenses, muscles straining in exhaustion.
His hips stutter right against you and warmth shoots into you several times, completely painting your insides. He continues to move inside of you with small thrusts. You're so full that it starts to drip out -- down the sides of his cock and onto the couch.
"Fuck," You groan, "I'm not on the pill."
"Good." He nuzzles his face against your sweaty neck. The weight of his body rests on top of yours. You listen to his breaths start to slow. He doesn't seem to care about how sticky you are, or the fact that he still hasn't pulled out.
You look over at your bag of forgotten snacks.
You were supposed to be eating those.
Instead, you're covered in sweat, your pants somewhere on the floor, and Clark is still holding you like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.
thinking about calling clark kent big boy during sex, but in a slightly condescending way.
you're riding him into the mattress, teasing him relentlessly by slowing down every time he gets too close, pinching his nipples when he squeezes his eyes shut, grinning when he inevitably lets out a whimpering 'golly'—because that's about the worst he'll say. and clark doesn't even complain, only sits there and faces your sweet torture with a small frown. he's being so good, so pliant, letting you use him exactly how you want, so you take pity. "d'you wanna come, big boy?" you coo, petting his hair. he only whines, bucking his hips in sync with the rolling of your hips. he knows better than to try and break your rhythm, so he holds back. "huh? is it too much for you?" it's sickly sweet, the way you say it, and he knows you don't really care wether it's too much for him or not, but his mind is hazy and all he can bring himself to do is cry out a pathethic, "yes!"
"look at you," you sneer, making his dick throb inside of you. "superman can't even handle a good fuck." it makes him tear up, even, and he sobs out, "i can! i can take it," but you're not convinced. you grind down om him harder. faster. meaner. testing his words. and when clark throws his head back with a loud, unrestrained moan, your smirk widens.
"i'm not sure you can, clarky," you pout at him. "you're already falling apart and we've barely even begun."
he whimpers, shaking his head frantically. he wants to be good for you, wants to hold back, but his heart is bursting at the seams. and so is his release. his fingers twist in the sheets, trying to ground himself and keep him sane, but it doesn't work very well because with a loud tearing sound, your bedsheets get ripped apart.
"clark!" you scold, but you don't stop. god, you don't stop and now clark only has two loose pieces of fabric to hold onto. so he forgoes them in favor of you, bracing his arms fully around your frame and burying his head in your chest with a sob. and you can't help but coo at him, threading your fingers through his dark curls as you bring him closer and closer to the edge. his cock twitches when you pull, and you know he's almost there. "c'mon, big boy," you moan, "let go f'me." and he does, he does. clark is crying against your chest, calling himself, "your big boy, 'm, 'm yours, yours," spilling his warm cum inside of you. and you're talking him all the way through, moaning his name as your own orgasm washes over you. "good boy, clark, my big boy, feels s' good."
so yeah, clark has developed some kind of pavlovian response to the words out of your mouth. he can't hear you say the word "big," definitely not combined with the word "boy" right behind it, without his cock twitching to life and an embarassing amount of precum staining his pants. but that's not your problem, is it?
Free Use!Clark who never says no to his girlfriend, no matter when or where she needs him. He’s always ready, always gentle, and always completely obsessed with how much she wants him.
Nympho!Reader who is utterly addicted to Clark Kent — his voice, his hands, his dick, the way he looks at her like she’s the only thing in the world. You can’t go more than a few hours without touching him, and he loves it.
700+ words of: (18+) ... free use kink, implied consent (cnc?), nympho reader, hcs, implied anal, cockwarming, face riding, exhibitionism, somnophilia, pwop, theyre freaky
ck x nympho!reader fic here
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Free Use!Clark who wakes up every morning to you already grinding on his thigh or sucking him under the sheets. He just groans softly, puts his hands on your hips, and lets you use his body however you need while he’s still half-asleep, voice raspy as he murmurs, “Good morning, sweetheart… take what you want.”
Nympho!Reader who gets wet the second Clark walks through the door after patrol. You’ll meet him in the hallway, drop to your knees, and pull his suit down just enough to get him in your mouth, moaning around him like you’ve been starving for hours.
Free Use!Clark who is more than happy to let you ride his face while he’s trying to read the newspaper. He’ll just set the paper aside, lie back on the couch, and hold your hips down so you can grind against his tongue until you’re shaking and soaking his chin.
Nympho!Reader who sends him filthy texts while he’s at work. Pictures of your fingers buried inside yourself with the caption “hurry home, I need you.” Clark has to excuse himself to the bathroom more than once because of how hard you make him.
Free Use!Clark who will fuck you bent over the kitchen counter while you’re trying to make dinner. You’ll be stirring sauce and suddenly his big hands are on your hips, sliding your panties to the side and pushing into you slow and deep while he kisses your neck and whispers, “Don’t stop cooking, baby. I’ve got you.”
Nympho!Reader who loves waking him up in the middle of the night by sinking down on his dick. Clark just moans sleepily, hands finding your waist as you ride him in the dark, his voice low and wrecked: “Couldn’t wait till morning, huh?”
Free Use!Clark who lets you crawl into his lap during movie night and cockwarm him the entire film. He’ll wrap his arms around you, chin on your shoulder, occasionally thrusting up when he knows you’re getting impatient, murmuring praise in your ear the whole time.
Nympho!Reader who gets off on the fact that Clark is Superman. You beg him to keep the cape on sometimes while he fucks you, clinging to the red fabric as he fucks you against the wall, super strength keeping you pinned exactly where he wants you.
Free Use!Clark who has bent you over his desk in the barn, in the back of his truck, in the shower, on the stairs, and once — very carefully — in the sky. He indulges every single craving you have without hesitation.
Nympho!Reader who gets dripping wet when Clark does mundane things — chopping wood shirtless, fixing the fence, wearing those gray sweatpants. You’ll walk up behind him, press yourself against his back, and beg him to take you right there in the yard.
Free Use!Clark who never makes you feel embarrassed for how much you need him. If you crawl into his lap during dinner and start grinding on him, he just pushes his plate aside, lifts you onto the table, and eats you out until you’re crying his name.
Nympho!Reader who loves being passed out from exhaustion only to wake up to Clark gently fucking you again because you whispered his name in your sleep and started rubbing against him.
Free Use!Clark who will pick you up, wrap your legs around his waist, and fuck you slow and deep while walking through the house like it’s nothing. He’ll carry you from the living room to the bedroom without ever pulling out, kissing you the whole way.
Nympho!Reader who keeps a butt plug in sometimes just so Clark can pull it out and replace it with his dick whenever he wants — though he usually ends up indulging you instead because you’re so desperate for him.
Free Use!Clark who finds you in the laundry room folding clothes and immediately bends you over the vibrating washing machine. He slides into you from behind while the spin cycle rattles hard against your chest, the intense shaking pressing right against your sensitive nipples as he fucks you deep and steady.
Nympho!Reader who can’t even pretend to focus on the laundry once Clark starts thrusting — moaning loudly as the machine’s vibrations buzz against your tits while his thick length stretches you open, coming harder because of the relentless shaking on your nipples.
Free Use!Clark who looks at his obsessed, insatiable girlfriend with nothing but pure love and lust in his eyes, because nothing makes him happier than knowing you need him this badly.
Nympho!Reader who is completely ruined for anyone else — and Clark wouldn’t have it any other way.
thinking of sitting on clark's lap. your lips meet his brows, then his nose, then his cheek, then down his jaw and stopping just below his ear. you take the sensitive skin between your teeth, the soothing it over with the tip of your tongue. your weight is settled deliciously over his painfully hard cock, smirking into his skin as you grind your hips in gentle circles. you torture him with small grinds. his mind is already hazy, drunk off the feeling of your lips, of your clothed pussy pressing down against his cock, yet you've barely kissed him. was that on purpose? were you teasing him on purpose? he's not conscious enough to tell. all he can hear is you, all he can feel is you. all around him. everywhere.
your lips trail just below his ear and you press soft fluttering kisses against the expanse of clark's smooth skin. your fingers explore his chest, shoulders, hair, ensuring that clark is consumed by you — more than he already is.
"f-fuck wait, baby, i—" clark whimpers, his head dropping back against the couch. his body is on fire, strung up so high that he's on the verge of falling off the edge. you silence his whines with your own mouth, lips sealing over his. you push your tongue into his mouth and sucking the tip of his into yours.
his hands tighten against your hips, holding you down against him. fuck, fuck, clark is so fucking fucked. his cock is throbbing in his sweats, threatening to bust into the cotton like a loser. god, he feels so fucking pathetic. and you know it too. you want it. you want to see how little it takes for clark to surrender.
you pull your head back, eyes cataloguing his dishevelled features. clark's eyes are half-lidded, sweat beading at his hairline, and lips parted with the force of his ragged breathes. barely composed. you love it.
you dip your head down, gently tracing his bottom lip with your tongue before sinking your teeth into the soft flesh.
and clark knows he's fucked. he shudders beneath you, spurting thick globs of cum into his sweatpants. fucking pathetic. you love him. he practically chokes on his whine, his head falls forward into your shoulder. his hips continue to stutter and grind up harder into your clothed pussy. he can't stop fucking cumming, holy shit—
clark digs his fingers into your hips with another loud whimper. the force of his fingers threaten to tear your own bottoms right off your skin. your eyes remain locked onto his shuddering form, a soft satisfied giggle leaving your mouth at the sight. another thick glob of cum spurts from clark's clock when he hears it.
"oooh, my, shit," he breathes out into your neck, hips continuing to jerk beneath you. the front of his sweats are soaked through with cum, staining your own panties. he bites down onto your shoulder to contain his pathetic whimpers. it's not his fault you're so pretty! he's just so in love with you.
another smirk spreads across your lips, "clark?" your fingers soothingly run through his hair, attempting to bring him back to you after his orgasm.
he lifts his head, eyes darkening as they meet yours, "my turn,"
an: MOOORREEEEE PRIME TIME AYEEEE. i want him to be as pathetic as possible
Clark is absolutely obsessed with your thighs. And yes, I think there would be a time when Clark would want you to try your damndest to suffocate him while he eats your pussy out as you ride his face. The pure euphoria that finds him as his arms wrap around your waist while you squeeze and grind against his head & tongue makes his heart beat rise just as much as his dick does in his briefs. You can always feel the smile gracing his lips underneath you as your body rubs back and forth; seeking out the best point and pattern of pleasure for yourself. Even still, Clark knows that you are kind. Your pussy may be on his mouth and your ass in his face, but your thighs instinctively leave an opening for him as if he needs air to breathe. As if. One of his hands slides down from your waist to your thigh as he gives it a quick smack—more loud than painful—as to bring your attention back on him. You both have had conversations about this little habit of yours. Clark has expressed his needs thoroughly: that he wants to be nothing more than your chair when he eats you out in this particular position. No thinking, no worrying, and no doubting from you that you're "too heavy" or that "you'd hurt him". All the man wants is for the love of his life to grip the ever loving life out of his face with your thighs and to taste your orgasm all over his tongue like the fucking reward it is to be the man underneath you. To be the man that you chose to be this vulnerable & comfortable with. To help bring you this great amount of pure and carnal pleasure that erupts all throughout you. Your body jolts from his smack, and you remind yourself of what he's told you before. Clark's smile returns to his face as he feels the pressure of your thighs come around his head; more permanently. His hand leaves its place on your thigh and returns back to your waist, but not without an accompanying kiss he gives to your asshole that makes a moan leave your lips. He enjoys the smothered feeling. He enjoys the act of this privilege that you've bestowed upon him. Clark is honored that you can use him as your own personal toy to bring yourself to one of the highest forms of pleasure. Fuck, the gratification of it all is so intense that it makes him cum in his briefs; hands free.
bsf! jason todd who fucks you after a bad date ughhhh
Going to his apartment after a disastrous date. Full on crying in his arms about how much you hate guys so much and he's just there cooing to you and wipin your tears away. When you are adamant about never dating again, he decides to show you exactly why you won't need to. Gets you into his bed and fuck you in a deep mating press, so deep it was like he was in your tummy. Your legs were on each side of his shoulder, his warm breath against your ankle. He had you locked in place under him, you couldn't run if you wanted to. It was so perfect for you. Jsson knew how bratty his dear friend could be, especially when things didn't go your way, so making you take every fucking stroke was the only way he could make you feel better.
"Don't need another man when m' here baby. I know. Feels so good right? Never knew you were this big of a crybaby. This is what friends are for. What? No. You can't do this with your other friends. This is just for me and you. Because no one else can make you cum like I can. Trust me, I know you way better than they do."
summary: it takes ten weeks for clark kent and a shy, touch starved, you to fall in love. (or, 4 times clark touches you and 1 time you touch him.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week one
The Daily Planet only seems to employ lovely, outgoing people. You're convinced of it.
You don't know how or why they hired you after meeting some of the people here. Maybe your interview self had somehow managed to make you seem like you’d fit right for that thirty minutes.
Whatever happened, they hired you anyway.
For the past week you’ve tried so hard to settle in. To put yourself out there a bit more. It hasn’t helped much.
There's some faulty wiring in your brain, you're sure, that makes you awful and awkward and idiotic around people you don't know. And right now, you don't know anyone. At work or in metropolis as a whole.
Cat Grant has tried no less than five times to strike up a conversation with you. Which is nice of her and horrible for you. Every attempt leaves you fumbling through responses and replaying every part of it in your head for hours afterward.
To avoid inflicting your shyness on anyone else, you've got into the routine of taking lunch late. By the time you head to the breakroom. Most people have already finished theirs up.
With your head shoved so far into the refrigerator you might as well be looking for the opening of another reality in the back of it, you squint at the shelves. Where the hell is your cherry soda? You know you set it right next to your lunch box so it can’t have gone far. Unless someone took it. But putting it next to your lunch box kind of implies–
“Hey!”
You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.
“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”
You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.
You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.
Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots.
There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.
“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.”
You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.
“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”
He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.
“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”
You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply.
Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent.
“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”
His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before.
“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”
Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!
“Was it cherry?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”
You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.
When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.
It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.
Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week three
Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.
Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.
At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.
Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.
Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.
As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.
He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.
“Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.
Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.
“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.
He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.
“Can I walk you home?”
What is going on?
“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”
You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.
For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.
The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.
It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.
And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.
What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.
“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”
“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Really?”
“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.”
Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?”
He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed.
“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.
Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.
“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.
It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”
You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.
You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.
“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”
You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building.
You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.
“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest.
“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.”
When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.
This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week five
The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..
Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late?
Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.
You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward.
“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”
“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”
As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.
It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair.
“You look really nice, honey.”
That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.
“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.
Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”
“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”
As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not.
Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question.
“Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”
There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.
It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.
“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…”
You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.
“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”
Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary.
“You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”
You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.
“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”
The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all.
“Yeah, right.”
“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.”
Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning.
By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.
It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.
“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”
Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice.
“Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.”
The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.
The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.
“Thank you.” you say quietly.
Clark shakes his head almost immediately.
“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”
Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.
This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week seven
When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?
The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.
It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy.
With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–
There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now.
You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.
The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.
“...For me?”
The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.
“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”
“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”
Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.
“They made me think of you when I saw them.”
Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.
Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.
You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase.
When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again.
“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”
You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.
“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”
Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt.
“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”
“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie.
When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.
“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”
His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.
“That is relaxing to me.”
“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.”
“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”
Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.
“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.”
“Including you.”
All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.
The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you.
“Oh no.”
You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand.
The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.
“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”
Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right.
“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.”
“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.”
It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.
His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.
“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.
The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides.
One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.
It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week ten
Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.
He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.
You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain.
Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically.
You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.
Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.
“Whats wrong?” he asks.
It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.
“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.
His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.
“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”
That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.
Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.
There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.
no matter where it is—restaurants, manor, home, benches—he cannot get it right the first time. his back, slightly hunched from months of being chained to that forsaken wheelchair, made him stiff and uncomfortable often times.
and he knows what it does to you.
the subtle lift of his hips, the way his thighs flex as he shifts around to get comfortable. he sees the way you try not to stare, the flush in your skin and the way your pupils dilate almost instantly.
especially in his suit.
the cargo pants that hugged him in all the right places, the stretch of the fabric over this lap and his thighs that spread immediately. he’d hang his arms over his legs, hips shifting downward. he’d press his back flush against the back of whatever he was sitting on, enticing eyes just swirling with amusement as the less-than-discreet glances you were giving him.
jason, at some point, had began to weaponize it in his favor.
if you were upset with him, he’d sit across from you. you’d cross your arms and watch him lift his hips, back sliding against the cushion as his legs spread wide. he’d tilt his head, a quiet invitation—a choice, not a demand.
he’d grin so arrogantly when you’d cave, climbing onto his lap and kissing that stupid smirk off his face. his hands would find your hips, adjusting you to sit directly on him.
“i hate you,” you’d mutter, feeling the way his hips shifted and his thighs flexed beneath you.
horndog boyfriends jason todd && ck-prime (18+) ₊˚⊹
"guys, you will not believe what happened today—" clark stumbles as he rushes to toe his shoes off, probably eager to rant about the idiots he had to talk to at the comic store.
the couch's squeak gets cut off as jason freezes behind you. his cock manages a single, pathetic throb in your cunt before he grumbles, "can it wait until—i don't know—we're done here?"
you can practically see the way his face pinches, even though he's buried your face halfway into the cushions. clark's mouth opens, then closes, and opens again.
"uh...you're telling me to wait, but you started without me?" he asks, offense clear in his tone.
you flick your eyes up, gaze meeting your boyfriend's sharp, tensed jaw. yeah, you think to yourself, he was definitely about to come.
"well, get over here, genius," you say to your other boyfriend, pushing yourself up onto your forearms. jason takes it a step further and pulls you against his flushed, firm chest, effortlessly taking you with him as he sits up.
"don't waste your time," he teases, hooking your pliant legs over his knees and spreading you for your third to see how deep you're taking him.
you hold your arms out to him while shifting to chide, "don't provoke him, jay."
he presses soft lips to your shoulder, so unlike the way he'd been fucking you before the welcome interruption. "sorry."
clark steps closer, pulling off his shirt in one smooth motion. jason throbs in your pussy again at the shield burned into clark's chest, at the taunting grin on his face. "yeah, jay, stop being an instigator."
you give him an exasperated look and readjust yourself the best you can with seven inches in your pussy. with a grunt, jason's hand flashes out and drags clark to kneel at eyelevel with your joined sexes. your thighs are trembling when he settles between them without a complaint, like second nature.
"oh," clark swallows unsteadily, crystal-blue eyes transfixed on your pussy, "i guess i can pipe down for a little."
the stretch in your legs and the pleasure simmering under your skin makes your head hazy, and clark nudging his nose against your clit feels like an afterthought.
“so pretty like this.” his words are warm on your inner thigh, smarting along your tendons. jason hisses when you flutter around him, tipping his hips up in return. your sigh trembles at the nudge of his cockhead against that spot that makes your vision go blurry.
the calluses on jason's fingers trail up beneath your soft camisole, catch on your nipple, the pert bud hitching between his thumb and forefinger. your thighs twitch again, and clark settles his warm, warm hands on your skin. the heat stays even after he moves on.
“can you touch yourself for me, baby?” when clark says it, he laps at the ring of arousal pooling at jason's base, dripping down his balls. the man behind you mutters a quiet fuck into your neck, gripping your waist for dear life.
you’re still so sensitive when you press your fingers to your clit and trace small, jerky circles over it. clark watches you and jason squirm, drinking in every flex in jason’s fingers and every attempt to close your thighs.
you whine, breathy and low, and he must be having enough of it because he dips forward and laps at your fingers as they slide between your labia. you make another pitched noise, gasping in tandem with jason.
jason lets one of his hands inch down, down, down until his fingers twist in clark's curls, until he’s pulling the black haired man closer into where the two of you are joined, until—
“fuck—clark, y’re filthy,” he groans. jason doesn’t wait for his boyfriend to respond, nipping at the tender area under your ear that makes you jerk your fingers just a little faster and moan just a little louder.
clark matches your pace, tongue cleaning the slick off your skin, mouth suckling at your clit when you pull into the apex of the tight circles you’ve been drawing. jason's right; it is fucking filthy.
he can’t stop rutting his hips up into your cunt, chasing the flat of clark's tongue as he swipes it across your fingers again. you shudder when jason moans, and clark just goes straight back to mouthing all over your clit and the hilt of jason's cock.
your stomach is starting to knot up again, neck tightening, shoulder blade drawing together. jason's as wound-up as you are, too caught in the web of your fingers and clark's tongue and the way you’re clamping just right around his cockhead.
your free hand joins jason's in the nest of black curls making a home between both of your thighs; you tug, just a bit, at the base near clark's scalp.
the man makes a low, stomach-deep sound that comes out rumbling around your stretched-out slit. jason's strained fuck goes ricocheting between your ribs, pinging right into your heat.
you coil clark's hair around and pull again; he makes the same choked noise, burying himself deeper into you and jason. you aren’t even sure if he can breathe there or if the cream that’s leaking out of your cunt is all he needs to fucking sustain himself.
clark pulls back and lets his eyes hunt the movement of your fingers slipping in your own wetness and his saliva. jason reels him back in by the back of his neck, muttering dirty nothings into your ear.
and then you swear you see stars, because clark is pressing his touch to your clit too, grazing his teeth over both of your fingers. jason grinds up for the nth time, twitching in in the way he always does when his balls are touched into that spongy spot that has you whining: please, jay, clark, right there, don’t stop—
he cleans yours and jason’s mess; the gothamite’s hips thrust mindlessly when he cums, heat spilling from your spasming cunt as your digits freeze up. clark's fingers don’t, and he keeps tracing shapes that aren’t even circles anymore all over your twitching clit.
you moan, low and spent and fuck, you can’t help but try to slam your legs close again. “cee, s’too much, please, i can’t.”
he just tilts his head to the side, shallowly digging his teeth into the plush of your thigh. clark taps at the junction of jason’s softening cock and balls—he shudders against your back, whimpering.
the freckles on clark’s forehead follow the movement of his brows when they tilt up and his breath goes beady in the humidity at the peak of your sex when he begs:
“can i please, please talk about that dumb fuck at the store while you both suck it?”
(nsfw)......Being roommates with Clark and Lois, not thinking much of being roomies with a couple — that is, until they both start fucking you behind each other's backs.
You never thought much of crashing in the spare room of Clark and Lois’s apartment. They were the perfect couple—him with his shy smile and glasses perpetually askew, her with that razor-sharp wit. Just cheap rent in Metropolis, and you figured the walls were thick enough. Until they weren’t.
It started with Clark. One night, the power went out during a storm. Lois was chasing a lead downtown. You found him in the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned, muscles shifting under moonlight. “Can’t sleep?” he murmured, voice low. Next thing you knew, he had you bent over the counter, hands pinning your wrists, dick stretching you open in deep, relentless strokes while he whispered apologies that sounded more like prayers. “Just needed you… fuck, you feel so good.” You came so hard you saw stars.
Three nights later, Lois cornered you in the laundry room. She tasted like coffee and sin, fingers sliding under your waistband while she smirked against your mouth. “Clark’s an idiot if he thinks I don’t notice how you walk after he’s had you.” Then she dropped to her knees, tongue working you until your legs shook, two fingers curling just right while she looked up with those knowing eyes.
Now it’s a delicious, filthy secret. Clark fucks you slow and devastating in the mornings when Lois is in the shower, hand over your mouth so you don’t moan his name too loud. Lois fucks you on the couch some afternoons, nails raking down your chest, whispering how much tighter you get when you’re trying not to get caught.
They still kiss each other goodnight like nothing’s changed. But every shared glance across the dinner table now holds heat—two predators circling the same prey, unaware they’re both already feasting. And you? You’re just trying not to smile too wide when they ask how your day was.
Thank you @punyparkerr for sparking my brief idea this morning. I answered @my-malachai-stilinski and edited it, and IT WENT AWAY. Glad I had it saved bc I was proud of coming up with this stuff on the fly?
Tags: 18+, MDNI, fluff and smut, p in v, creampie, semi-public sex, size kink, uniform kink, pet names (baby, hon, sweetheart)
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Rugby!Clark is an Absolute Unit. 6'4"+ 240 lbs shoulders that barely fit through doorways, Sequoia Thick thighs. His ass in those shorts are RIDICULOUS. Fans lose their minds every time he squats to bind in the scrum.
Built the "The Gentle Giant" reputation. Has to constantly restrain himself. He knows one full-power shove and someone’s getting stretchered off with a career-ending injury and he would never be able to sleep at night. Always the first to help an opponent up after a tackle and the media eats it uppppp.
Despite his restraint he’s terrifying on the field. Runs as fast as a freight train. Boy got HOPS like he’s got springs in his boots. Opposing teams start aiming their throws away from him, they're freaked out like a man that size shouldn't be moving like this😭
Post-game: sweaty curls stuck to his forehead, jersey half-unzipped, still breathing heavy. So polite during interviews, sounding like, "Yeah, tough game. Just happy everyone did their best." Meanwhile he’s already searching the stands, thinking about getting home to you.
Writes a surprisingly thoughtful column or speech for the team about sportsmanship and mental health.
✨️SFW/NSFW BELOW✨️
Eats like a black hole. You and Ma learned to meal-prep in industrial quantities. He’ll demolish three plates and still look at you and the fridge with those big blue eyes like "erm...is there more?"
Grass stains everywhere, including those damn nice socks you bought him. You’ve gotten very good at rubbing those out and rubbing arnica into his shoulders, pressing ice packs on his back while he sits on the floor between your legs, head tipped back making those low happy noises. You both know he doesn't really need it, but you enjoy it anyways.
Loves when you come to games wearing his jersey, his name, his number. Bonus if its oversized and nothing underneath. He spots you in the stands and suddenly plays like a demon - c'mon, let's wrap it up! I want my girl now!
.
Post-match ritual: finds you in the tunnel or parking lot, lifts you clean off your feet in a BIG sweaty hug and a Take My Breath Away Kiss. Doesn’t care who’s watching. "Missed you," mumbled into your neck.
If they win big he’s a lil smug, cocky, and very handsy all the way home. If they lose he'll smile it off but its obvious he needs to feel you. All huffy and fidgeting. Needs the reminder that he’s good at something that day, like how he can take care of you.
Backyard "training." He’ll set up cones and make you do footwork drills with him, laughing when you trip over your own feet, but catches you before really falling.
Teaching you touch rugby in the backyard always guaranteed to turn filthy 90% of the time. You tackle him (you both know he’s letting you), straddling him for a few moments to watch you all winded and laughing, and then "accidentally" pins you under him in the grass.
Appreciates your enthusiasm to know the game properly. Sits you between his legs, arms around you, chin on your shoulder, explaining cleanouts and lineout calls in a low, patient voice that would sound condescending from any other man. You ask "dumb" questions on purpose, which he responds: "Great question! So this is why..."
Wears a tiny charm you gave him on a chain under his jersey during every game. Something small with your initials? Your birth stone? Touches it before lineouts for good luck.
.
Strength kink goes Insane. He can hold you up against the wall with one arm while the other yanks your clothes off. Fucks you standing without breaking a sweat. Loves when you wrap your legs around his waist, hands gripping his shoulders/biceps/his face begging for harder, faster, deeper, more, and he just walks you to the bedroom without pulling out.
Those Sequoia thighs. You riding one while he’s "recovering" on the couch after practice. Him watching you with dreamy eyes, big hands guiding your hips, praising you the whole time. "That’s it, sweetheart. Use me."
Uniform kink is reeeaaal. Missing Clark while he's on the road for away games, welcoming him back wearing his home game-worn jersey. Sleeves too long, hem covering your ass. He'd immediately dropped to his knees to eat you out while you’re still wearing it, moaning over and over how much he missed you. Or he'd have you on all fours in just the jersey while he fucks you from behind, gripping the fabric like reins. Always so quick with aftercare, sometimes you ask for him to leave it on you afterward, just to watch him watch his cum soak into the material.
Oh, post-game adrenaline is so lethal to your pussy. He’s in his uniform — muddy shorts, jersey rucked up — and he’s so so dirty and desperate. Gets you on the bed, or floor, or kitchen counter and just takes. Deep, grinding thrusts growling and groaning "gosh darlin', you feel so good every time" against your throat.
Size kink + stretch. He’s biiiig everywhere and he knows it. Loves watching you determined to take him, loves the little overwhelmed, stubborn noises you make while you try to stop your cunt from clenching around him. "Easy, hon… I’ve got you. Let me do the work."
Endurance for days. One round is never enough for either of you. He’ll fuck you through your first orgasm, keep going while you’re shaking and creaming on him, then flip you on top and start again. Only stops when you’re a boneless, whimpering mess and even then he’s still hard and kissing apologies into your skin.
Sin-bin punishment. If you’ve been teasing him all day, he’ll edge you for ages. "Yellow card behaviour, hon. Gotta sit this one out."
Messy creampie enjoyer. Especially after a win because the sight of you after is the real prize. Watching it drip out afterward, then pushing it back in with his meaty fingers and the tip of his cock because "can’t waste it"????
Shower sex after games/practice is non-negotiable. After the other guys have gone home, you're sneaking him back into the locker rooms. You're washing the mud and sweat off him under the hot water spray, praising him while you stroke his cock until he can no longer fight the urge to fuck you against the tiles.
Rugby!Clark is a handsy man right? So he'll have one hand over your mouth and his mouth sucking on your breast so the groundskeep doesn't hear how loud you two get.
18+ | after a long night of studying, nerdystoner!jason wants to eat his favourite thing—you.
a faint scent of weed lingered through the air and squint on your face that told him an entire story.
he’d laugh a little and join you, take the joint from between your fingers with a slow pull like he’s savouring your taste from the filter. smoke bellowing between you while he asks how your day was. listening intently before you turn the question around and says his was simply better now that you’re there. not wanting to elaborate because it didn’t matter since he was home.
any substance harder than this he’d be against. but jason likes how the weed mellows him out, forgetting the tedious daily tasks and stress make him turn to self-mediating and reading some self-help books. when he’s comfortable like this around you, he talks about prevention like it’s taken root in his mind.
jason would pull you onto his lap effortlessly and drag his fingers down your back soothingly. he’d be so loving and touchy when he’s high, it truly only amplifies his personality. you take a long drag as you gaze into his eyes and jason bites his lip while you trace the scar on his face.
less than ten minutes go by before he’s tugging off your shirt, more eager now that he’s loosened up. he’d whisper your name like a prayer against your skin, the vibrations sinfully tingling. reverence in his movements as he seats you fully on his lap, the joint long burned out and forgotten in the ashtray.
“babe,” you laugh at his eagerness. “you didn’t even eat dinner yet.”
he’ll stare up at you with hearts in his eyes and a look that could only be described as puppy like. then he rasps, “please.”
desperation evident in his tone and a break in his voice that struck deep. running your fingers through his hair and he practically moans. you nod your head and bite your lip when his eyes fall to it.
it’s enough to spur him on immediately.
before you knew it he was on his knees, fingers curled around your thighs like a brace to keep you there. his roughened hands hold you tight while he’s kitten licks at your clothed core. groaning like it hurts when you buck up into him yet not letting you get any further. he doesn’t let you shut your legs when the sensations are too much. jason won’t let you run from how it feels and he won’t let himself get off yet either. pressing himself hard against you when he lifts your hips, guiding you closer to his mouth like he could devour you whole.
it’s a miracle you remember that he genuinely can go on like this for hours before you pry him off—again, to no avail.
“jay—fuck, babe just take it off of me.” gasping as you try to push at his head and buck into him at once.
instead he moans against you like he’s the one getting off. “mmhf, give me another minute.”
struggling to find the words and clamping your legs around his head, you pull him up by his hair. it dawns on him then that he was absolutely drunk on you and didn’t seem to care. whining his name again, jason buries himself deeper between your legs. lapping desperately as your hips lift completely off the cushion. you mutter under your breath and gasp for air when he holds your hand in his and groans again. the fabric of your panties wet from arousal and his ministrations all at once. clinging tightly to your skin and he sucks in pulses. your free hand jumps to grab at him, at something to ground yourself from the feelings rendering you helpless.
it builds up higher as he takes both of your wrists in one of his big hands and holds it over your stomach. his other hand coming to wrap around your thigh and pull it further apart, deepening his movements instead of just taking it all off. flicking and flattening his tongue against you.
you’d feel embarrassed if it wasn’t jason. but the warmth pools in your core and if he wasn’t holding you down, you’re sure you’d be jumping around the place. he knows your body better than you do at this point.
“it’s okay ma,” groaning into you and parting just to speak. “just let it happen.”
when you turn your head to the side, trying to hide in the throw pillow there, he tugs you further down the couch. hoisting you up as he sits on his knees, only your upper back touching the cushion now. the tension snaps like an elastic band, the overwhelming force ruining you and probably his shirt too as you let go. but jason doesn’t stop eating like his life depends on it. he keeps humming as you shake in his grips. looking down to him, the high mixed with this one making you feel like you’re floating over yourself, watching him commit this filthy act with a smile on his sweaty face. 
he doesn’t relent, instead he continues his ministrations while you whine beneath him. weakly pushing at him while simultaneously aching for more. jason finally puts a finally kiss to your puffy clit and stands, trailing his lips up your bare torso til he sucks at your breast. moaning egregiously at how pliant you’d become, he finally reaches your face and locks lips with you.
the kiss is heady and sweet, utterly yours in a way that made you shiver. he’s twisting his tongue around yours as he pushes the taste of you so fat down your throat that you could help but feel impossibly filthy. while he’s got you there, his hands move on their own accord. finding his belt and clinking it open when you move quickly to push them down his legs. he lets you take a little control then, kissing passionately while you fiddle his belt out of the loops and shove his pants and boxers down with them. that’s when you hear the faint flicker of your lighter on the table and jason pulls back to place the joint between his lips.
eyes boring into yours as he takes a long drag, not wavering his gaze on you. he pulls you up by your chin and the rest of your follows breathlessly. leaning up into him until he brings his lips over yours, just ghosting there. then he exhales and the smoke fills your lungs slowly. sucking the intoxicating air in as he follows you back down too your back hit the cushions again, sealing the moment with a kiss.
the high only intensifies when he puts the joint on your lips and nods to make you do the same. the air that lifts from your mouth and touches his, you watch as his eyes fall to your lips and the thick cloudy smoke follows up into his parted lips. for a moment his eyes rolls back and the tuft of white in his hair that was stuck to his forehead looks similar to the milky white cloud that gathered around you as jason exhaled again.
you feel something thick and heavy on your clothes core again as he pushes your sweaty hair out from your face. a heady smile on his face and his red rimmed eyes nearly a a lot with how high he’d gotten. he leans up a little to kiss your forehead, but the drag is devastating on your sensitive bud. you grasp at his shoulders.
“wait, not yet.” gripping tightly while he only smiles and pouts.
“what?” he taunts. “too sensitive princess?” continuing the tireless dragging with his hand firm in directing his thick length.
it catches on you again and you gasp sharply. throwing your head back while trying to buck up into him and nodding.
“v—very.” the word a breathless sound on your tongue.
jason hums as he leans forward again, keeping you still beneath him despite how you try to feel him again. instead he’s pressing his full weight down on you while he smiles, pretending like he doesn’t know how hard he was against you now. his lips part on gasp just as yours do, almost like he’s mimicking how you move.
the next words were raspy as he said it and you knew you were done for. “too bad. you’ll be okay.”
his hand continues to drag his length over and over against you, the fabric doing nothing to barrier you from the other. the cotton now wet with arousal and precum, the slippage gives him more room to tease. watching you breath hitch and falter, he pulls himself up to drop it back down and let you feel he weight of him. when you try to hide from him again, he turns your head back to look between you. to see the squelching mess that you’d created from how he was making you feel.
“you see that? that’s all mine.” he moans as he just drags his length a little harder against you.
he uses his free hand to paw at your breasts, mouthing at you relentlessly like it was the last time. practically slobbering over your chest as he drops his mouth to the other and rolls the peak with his thumb.
crying out as the overstimulation peaks, you feel a tear rush down your face. though he only continues, the look in his eye that told you he meant for you to really feel it. jason moans against your skin and the vibrations made everything intensify even more. he makes a broken sound then, sputtering as he says your name and his movements turn messy. his hips buck mindlessly as he breathes hot against your chest.
one of your hands come up to grab his hair and hold him there as you reach the peak once again, crying out his name as he comes undone. with a harsh gasp, he comes in thick ropes, painting your panties with his spend as the rest lands onto your stomach and thighs.
jason collapses against you, kissing up the side of your face as he catches his breath. finally pulling away to look at you, breathing heavily and melting into the cushion. a blissed out expression on your face and the lingering scent of skin, weed, and vanilla in the air. the intoxicating scent of you that he breathes in was riling him up again before you even spoke to him.
he breathes your name, “you okay ma?”
taking a thick swallow from how worked up you’d gotten, you nod, rasping a quiet, “yeah.” before he quickly got up and grabbed the water bottle on the counter. pulling you up while he rested his back on the seat and held you close to his chest, bringing the water to your lips.
you drink quietly, the room quiet beyond the soft sound of your music playing from before and you gulping hard. when he brings the bottle down, you drop your head to the crook of his neck and sigh. “you’re the worst.”
that only makes him grin and kiss the top of your sweaty head. “you mean, i’m the best?”
effortlessly lifting your hips just to pull your ruined panties off you finally and place you back onto him. letting his palm lay flat over your core, whether in silent apology or quiet possession, you weren’t sure. but you didn’t complain regardless. with no energy to argue, you just sigh softly into his neck and shut your eyes. jason holds onto you tighter as hums to your playlist like he knows every one because he does. he listens to your music so he can know you even more intimately than he already does and when you smoke with him, he adds them to his playlist.
he keeps the bottle close to where he sat on the table for when you taped him to pass it to you again because he knew you would. after a few minutes passed in steady silence where you only laid on him while he listened to you breath, you lift your head ever so slightly when he’s already looking down at you, bottle in his hand with the cap screwed off.
asking if you’re, “still thirty baby?” even though he knew you were, he was just waiting for you to ask.
when you smile weakly at him, he brings it up to your lips while he brushes your hair back with a tender touch.
while you fall into your exhausted slumber, you’re left wondering how you got so lucky to have him and he thinks exactly the same while watching his world drift asleep.
it got sappy at the end man idk im fried. i love loverboy!jason so bad!! happy canada day to my canadian cuties also <3
you knew you were smaller compare to your bf, but you never really gave it much notice, until you started to notice the way he’s eye started to linger longer for certain things. when you ask for help reaching something on the top shelf, the way his clothes would crowd up your body, or maybe the way your body fit perfectly on his lap.
the size difference did something to your bf it made him felt wanted when ask for help for certain things. the way he can feel how much bigger he was when you wrap your hand around his arm. but he wanted you to feel too. he wanted to show how good he can make you feel. he wanted hear whined and squirmed telling him that he’s to big. but no he could never want that for his precious girlfriend right…
here you are squirming and whining, telling him that it's too much and that he's too big, but he doesn't stop, i mean how could when he had you right where he wanted, fingernails digging into your hips, soft thighs wrapped around his waist, body completely covers yours.
“shh, baby I got you.” his hands soothe down wiping the light tears pooling down . he had you underneath as he watched your body struggled to take all of him. seeing the visible bulge forming as he bottomed out made had goarned loudly " fuck, you're taking me so well baby", pressing down against the visible bulge. "can feel me all up in here, right, baby?” he smirked.
it brought something out of him, the way you trust him to be in moment with him. makes him want to thrust another load after load. he thinks you look so beautiful like this all fucked out. he wish he can stay inside of you forever. he just wants to be the only man you think about.
cw. shower sex, fingering (f!receiving), cute banter between you and Mark (mark grayson x fem!reader)
The water outage notice goes up at seven in the morning.
You find it taped crookedly to the elevator doors on your way back from getting coffee, still sleepy, wearing shorts and one of Mark’s old college shirts because laundry day has become more of a suggestion than an actual routine.
TEMPORARY WATER INTERRUPTION FROM 8:00 A.M. TO 6:00 P.M.
You stare at it.
Then stare harder, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less inconvenient.
Behind you, Mark comes out of the stairwell with wet hair, gym bag over one shoulder, cheeks flushed from his morning run. He nearly bumps into you, then follows your gaze to the notice.
“Oh,” he says.
You turn slowly. “Did you shower already?”
Mark blinks.
You narrow your eyes.
His face does something suspicious.
“Technically…”
“Mark.”
“I rinsed off at the gym.”
“That is not showering.”
“It involved water.”
“You smell like outside.”
“I smell like fresh air and athletic dedication.”
“You smell like pavement.”
He laughs, leaning closer just to annoy you, and you shove at his chest with one hand. He catches your wrist without thinking, thumb brushing over your pulse before he lets go.
The little contact lingers longer than it should.
Everything with Mark lingers longer than it should these days.
The two of you are not dating.
You have both said this.
Several times, actually.
Usually after one of you falls asleep on the couch with the other’s hand tucked under your shirt. Or after Mark comes home bruised and you patch him up in silence, sitting too close, knees touching. Or after you wear his clothes without asking and he looks at you like he has forgotten every language he knows.
Not dating.
Just sharing a place.
Just friends.
Just friends who know exactly how the other takes their coffee, who keep ending up in each other’s beds without doing anything except sleeping too close, who pretend not to notice how charged the air gets when one of you walks around in a towel.
Normal. Very normal.
The notice on the elevator says otherwise.
You check the time on your phone. “It’s seven-thirty.”
Mark glances at the paper again. “We’ve got thirty minutes.”
“I need to wash my hair.”
“I need an actual shower.”
You both go quiet.
The silence is immediate.
Heavy and ridiculous.
Then Mark says, far too casually, “We could save water.”
Your head snaps toward him.
He is already smirking.
Not fully. Just enough to make your stomach drop.
“Absolutely not.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
“My face is innocent.”
“Your face is never innocent.”
Mark’s smirk grows.
You hate him.
You hate that your body reacts to it too, warmth creeping up your neck as you turn away from him and jab the elevator button like it personally betrayed you.
“We are not showering together,” you say.
“Okay.”
“Stop sounding like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something.”
Mark leans against the wall beside you, looking entirely too relaxed for someone causing this much damage before breakfast.
“I know we have thirty minutes.”
You glare at him.
He lifts both hands. “I’m just saying.”
“You’re just saying nothing.”
“Right.”
The elevator arrives and you step in first.
Mark follows.
Neither of you speaks the entire way up.
That somehow makes it worse.
Because the idea is already there now, sitting between you in the tiny mirrored elevator. Mark behind you. Steam. Water. Bare skin. His stupid broad shoulders taking up too much space. You try very hard not to look at his reflection.
You fail once.
He catches you.
Of course he catches you.
His eyes flick to yours in the mirror.
You look away so fast your neck nearly hurts.
Mark says nothing.
But his mouth twitches.
By the time you get inside the apartment, you’re already flustered.
You set the coffees down too hard on the counter and march toward the bathroom with false confidence.
“I’m going first.”
Mark follows at an unhurried pace. “You said you have to wash your hair.”
“I do.”
“That takes forever.”
“It does not.”
“It does.”
You turn in the bathroom doorway. “Do you want hot water or not?”
He stops in front of you.
Too close.
Always too close lately.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes.
“I’m fine with sharing.”
Your breath catches.
Mark hears it.
His smirk fades a little, replaced by something slower. Warmer.
Less teasing.
More dangerous.
You swallow. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m standing here.”
“Exactly.”
He laughs softly, but his eyes don’t leave your face.
“Your call,” he says.
That should help.
It does not.
Because he means it. He is leaving it to you. No pressure, no push, no smug little joke now. Just Mark standing there in the hallway, giving you space to say no.
And suddenly the word no feels embarrassingly far away.
You look down at your coffee and then back at him.
Then at the bathroom, where the clock is very much ticking.
“This is just practical,” you say.
Mark’s face stays carefully neutral.
Too carefully.
“Very practical.”
“To save water.”
“Of course.”
“And time.”
“Definitely.”
“And you’re not allowed to be annoying.”
His eyebrows lift. “That one might be hard.”
“Mark.”
“I’ll behave.”
You do not believe him.
Not for one second.
Still, ten minutes later, you are standing in the shower with him.
Naked with Mark.
Naked Mark.
Behind you.
You have made several tactical errors in your life, but this may be the worst.
The shower is not built for two people. Not two people when one of them is Mark, who takes up space like it’s a personal hobby. His shoulder brushes yours every time he moves. His arm reaches past you for the shampoo and the entire wall seems to shrink. Warm water runs over both of you, steam fogging the glass until the bathroom becomes its own little world.
You face forward with the dedication of someone defusing a bomb.
You do not look down.
You do not look back.
You keep your eyes fixed on the tile.
Very normal tile.
Beautiful tile, really.
Fascinating grout.
Behind you, Mark clears his throat.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You’re staring at the wall.”
“I like walls.”
“You like walls?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never mentioned that.”
“It’s a private interest.”
Mark laughs under his breath.
You can feel him trying not to move too close.
That is somehow worse than if he just did.
Because you are painfully aware of every inch he is keeping away from you. Aware of the heat of him behind you. Aware of the water running down his chest, his stomach, lower. Aware of the fact that if you turned around, you would see everything you have been carefully not thinking about for weeks.
You reach for the body wash.
Mark reaches at the same time.
Your hands touch.
You freeze.
He does too.
The bottle slips.
You both grab for it.
In the cramped space, Mark steps forward.
His chest hits your back.
And then you feel him.
Hard against you.
Your whole body goes still.
Mark’s breath catches behind you.
Neither of you moves.
Water beats steadily against the tile as steam curls around your face.
Your fingers tighten around the body wash.
Mark’s voice comes low near your ear.
“Sorry.”
He does not move away.
You do not ask him to.
That is its own answer.
His hands hover at your sides, not touching yet, just there. Waiting.
“Tell me to move,” he says.
Your throat feels dry despite the shower.
You should.
You really should.
Instead, your voice comes out small.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Mark goes very still.
The silence changes again.
This time it is not awkward.
It is charged.
His hands settle lightly at your waist.
Not grabbing.
Not taking.
Just touching.
His thumbs rest against your wet skin, and you feel him exhale behind you.
“You sure?” he asks.
You close your eyes.
The water runs down your face, your chest, between your breasts. His body is warm and solid behind yours. Too close. Not close enough.
“Yes.”
It is barely a whisper.
Mark hears it anyway.
Of course he does.
His hands slide slowly around your waist, palms spreading over your stomach. He pulls you back against him, just enough that your spine fits to his chest, just enough that there is no pretending anymore.
You gasp softly when he presses harder against you.
Mark’s mouth brushes the side of your neck.
“You’re shaking.”
“You’re naked.”
“So are you.”
“That’s different.”
He smiles against your skin. “How?”
“Because it’s you.”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
Mark freezes.
For one awful, breathless second, you think you have ruined everything.
Then his hands tighten on your stomach.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
Your face burns hotter than the steam. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make me say embarrassing things.”
His lips graze your neck.
“But I like when you say embarrassing things.”
You elbow him lightly.
He catches your arm, laughing softly, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.
The kiss ruins you.
It is too gentle for what is happening. Too soft for the way his cock is pressed against your lower back, too sweet for the way his hands are already sliding higher, up your ribs, slow enough to give you time to stop him.
You don’t.
His palms cup your breasts.
Your breath leaves you.
Mark stills immediately.
“Okay?”
You nod, then remember what he always does.
“Yes.”
His fingers flex, careful at first, testing. Your nipples are already hard from the water and the nerves and him, and when his thumbs brush over them, your whole body jolts.
Mark inhales sharply.
“Oh.”
“Don’t,” you whimper.
His mouth returns to your neck. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was.”
“You’re awful.”
“Maybe.”
His thumbs circle again.
Your head tips back against his shoulder before you can stop it.
Mark’s voice drops.
“But you like it.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, mortified.
He pinches gently, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and the sound you make echoes off the tile before you can swallow it.
Mark groans behind you.
“Fuck.”
Your face burns. “Mark.”
“I know.” His hands keep moving, slow and deliberate. “I know, baby.”
Baby.
That is new.
That is dangerous.
You go soft against him, and he feels it instantly.
His arm slides around your waist, holding you up as his other hand continues teasing your nipple until your knees threaten to give.
“You like that too?” he asks.
You shake your head.
His thumb strokes again.
You whine as Mark smiles against your ear.
“Liar.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You’re still leaning on me.”
“I have no choice.”
“You have plenty of choices.”
His hand slips down your stomach.
Your breath catches.
He pauses just above where you want him.
“Tell me no,” he says softly, “and I’ll stop.”
You stare at the fogged shower glass in front of you, heart pounding.
You don’t say no.
Instead, you reach back blindly and grab at his lower back.
Mark’s breath shudders.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”
His fingers slide between your legs.
You nearly collapse.
He holds you tighter, chest firm against your back, one arm wrapped around your middle while his hand finds you with devastating ease. He touches you like he has thought about it before, like he already knows where to press, where to slow down, where to circle until your hips jerk helplessly into his palm.
Wetness slickening his fingers as the pads circle your clit.
“Mark,” you gasp.
His mouth opens against your neck.
You feel his smile.
“Yeah?”
You hate that he sounds smug.
You hate that it turns you on.
His fingers glide through your folds, gathering the slickness there, mixing with the hot water running over both of you. He groans again, deeper this time.
“You’re so wet.”
“It’s the shower.”
His laugh is low and mean in the sweetest way.
“No, it’s not.”
You cover your face with one wet hand.
He immediately catches your wrist and lowers it.
“Don’t hide.”
“I’m embarrassed.”
“I know.” His fingers find your clit, and your body jerks. “It’s cute.”
“It’s not cute.”
“It is.”
He rubs slow circles over you, barely enough, teasing more than giving. Your hips chase his hand, and he holds you still with infuriating ease.
“Mark.”
“What?”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean.” His voice is soft, almost innocent. “I’m being practical.”
You huff a broken laugh despite yourself. “Practical?”
“We’re saving water.”
“You’re—” Your words dissolve into a whimper when he presses harder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re trying not to come on my fingers.”
Your whole body goes hot.
“Mark.”
His teeth graze your shoulder, not biting, just enough to make your stomach flip.
“What?” he murmurs. “Too honest?”
You can’t answer.
Not when he is touching you like that, not when his cock is still hard against your back, not when his other hand returns to your breast, thumb circling your nipple in time with his fingers between your thighs.
It is too much.
The steam. The water. Mark’s body wrapped around yours. The fact that you are not dating, not together, not anything simple, and yet he is holding you like he has wanted this for weeks.
Maybe months.
Your voice trembles. “Have you thought about this?”
Mark’s fingers slow.
For a second, only the shower speaks.
Then his mouth presses against your ear.
“Yes.”
Your heart stutters.
“How much?”
His grip tightens.
“A lot.”
Your knees nearly buckle.
Mark catches you, his laugh breathless and rough.
“That got to you?”
You turn your face away, shy and burning.
His hand leaves your breast to cup your jaw, guiding you just enough for him to see your profile.
“Ask me,” he says.
You swallow. “Ask what?”
“What I thought about.”
Your lashes flutter.
“Mark…”
“Ask.”
Your whole body throbs at the command.
“What did you think about?”
His fingers start moving again.
Slow, lazy and cruel.
“This,” he says. “You trying not to look. Pretending you’re not curious.”
You whimper.
“Pretending you don’t notice when I come out of the shower.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.”
You hate him.
You hate that he’s right.
His mouth drags over your neck.
“I thought about getting you exactly like this,” he admits, voice rough now. “All shy and wet and shaking against me.”
Your hand flies to his wrist between your thighs, but again, not to stop him.
Just to hold on.
“I thought about touching you until you couldn’t pretend anymore.”
You sob softly.
His fingers circle faster.
“Thought about how you’d sound.”
“Mark.”
“And I was right.”
You come with his name breaking in your mouth.
It hits you hard, sharp and hot, your body folding forward as much as his arm will allow. Mark holds you through it, hand working you gently while you tremble, his mouth pressed to your temple, murmuring soft praise into your wet skin.
“That’s it. There you go. I’ve got you.”
Your legs shake so badly that he has to turn you carefully, pressing your back against the tile so you don’t slip.
You stare up at him, breathless.
For the first time, you let yourself look.
Really look.
At his wet hair falling into his eyes. The water running down his chest. His flushed face. The way he is still hard, still wanting, still trying so visibly to be careful with you that it makes your chest ache.
Mark notices your gaze drop.
His mouth curves.
“There it is.”
You look back up too quickly.
He laughs softly, bracing one hand against the wall beside your head.
“You can look.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was not.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
You glare at him.
He leans down, his lips brushing yours but not quite kissing you.
“Want me to stop?”
Your answer comes too fast. “No.”
His eyes darken.
The first kiss is careful.
The second is not.
Your arms slide around his neck, pulling him closer as he presses you back against the tile, his body fitting between your thighs. The water runs over both of you, hot and steady, and everything gets messier from there — mouths slipping, hands wandering, Mark groaning when your fingers finally wrap around him.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth.
You freeze, suddenly shy again.
He catches your wrist gently.
“Don’t stop unless you want to.”
You look up at him through wet lashes.
He looks wrecked.
Completely wrecked.
That gives you courage.
You touch him again, slowly, and his forehead drops to yours.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re going to kill me.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re naked and touching me in the shower.”
“That’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You suggested saving water.”
He laughs, but it breaks into a groan when your hand moves again.
His hips twitch.
Your face heats at the feel of him in your palm, hard and heavy and unmistakably affected by you.
By you.
Not some almost-girlfriend. Not some roommate. Not some friend he keeps blurring lines with.
You.
Mark kisses you again, deeper this time, then pulls back just enough to look at you.
“We should get out,” he says, voice strained.
You blink. “What?”
“If we keep going in here, I’m going to lose my mind, and I don’t want you slipping.”
The fact that he can still be responsible right now is offensive.
You stare at him and then you softly laugh.
Mark frowns. “What?”
“You’re really telling me to get out of the shower for safety?”
“Yes.”
“While naked.”
“Yes.”
“After making me come on your fingers.” You whisper teasingly.
His face flushes.
Actually flushes.
You gasp softly, delighted. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re embarrassed.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
He turns the water off with a little too much force.
“We’re getting out.”
You giggle as he reaches for a towel, but the sound dies when he wraps it around you himself, careful and tender, rubbing warmth back into your arms. The steam clings to the mirror. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. He is still naked, still hard, still standing close enough to make your thoughts scatter, but now he is looking at you with something softer than hunger.
Something scarier.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
Your heart squeezes.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His brows lift.
You smile faintly. “Yes, Mark.”
He relaxes.
“Good.”
You should leave it there.
You should go get dressed. Pretend this was a weird, water-saving incident. Laugh awkwardly over coffee and never talk about how his hands felt on you or how quickly he made you fall apart.
Instead, you reach for his towel.
Mark looks down at your hand.
Then up at your face.
Your fingers curl in the fabric.
“I didn’t say we had to stop,” you whisper.
The air goes still.
Mark’s expression changes slowly.
The soft concern remains, but heat curls through it, darkening his eyes.
“No?”
You shake your head.
He steps closer.
“Then where do you want me?”
Your breath catches.
You glance toward the hallway.
Toward his room.
Mark follows your gaze.
When he looks back at you, his smirk has returned.
Worse than before.
Warmer than before.
“Bed?” he asks.
You hide your face in the towel. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know.”
Mark laughs softly, then scoops you up like you weigh nothing.
You squeal, grabbing his shoulders. “Mark!”
“What?” He carries you out of the bathroom, dripping wet and grinning. “We’re conserving energy now.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You like me.”
You press your burning face into his neck.
That is not an answer.
Or maybe it is.
Mark’s arms tighten around you as he carries you to his room, the apartment quiet around you, the water outage forgotten, the line between friends and something more already washed clean off the floor.
